


How We Deal With Deserters

by sunshinestealer



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-14 07:42:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5735401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinestealer/pseuds/sunshinestealer





	How We Deal With Deserters

Stake-outs are by far the most boring part of working for Shinra’s Department of Administrative Research. Oh, sure, when you’re buried under those mountains of paperwork, the idea of sitting around for hours people-watching with a deluxe bucket of fried chicken sounds amazing. But then your shoulder starts to ache from hours of laying down cradling a sniper rifle, and your target decides to spend a million years in some ropey gambling den that you know he comes to on Tuesdays because, y’know, you’ve been tailing him and his boring routine for the past three weeks.

The target is into his fourth hour in this ramshackle hut in the Sector Six slums. There’s some big Chocobo race on, and his new girlfriend probably wouldn’t be pleased to learn he’s spending their meagre savings on betting on overgrown chickens.

Shinra have hit the jackpot with this target, though. This guy isn’t a high profile military deserter, and nor did he run off after Genesis’ fabulous red coat tails. This walking security risk to Shinra’s continued interests simply vanished into the Wutai night, fatally stabbing the poor major on watch that night as he absconded. The company  had lost track of him until he was stupid enough to wind up back in Midgar, undoubtedly for better employment prospects, and being able to get false identities in the slum markets. So far, the target’s collected two — some dull-as-dishwater name that nobody would suspect, and another name that alludes to former military service. If anyone asks (and you have overheard him say this), the target admits that he was medically discharged from the military, along with some sob story about his army pension.

Reno rests his back against the air conditioning unit on a rooftop two storeys above the ground, opposite the gambling den. He’s inconspicuous up here, on the roof of some disused condo building. Rude’s on some other mission across town, despite the general consensus that Turks should _always_ be working in pairs. He’d radioed his friend just a few moments earlier — and envied the cushy task he’d been landed with. That was, taking the President’s son out of that fancy inner-city boarding school, bundling him into a car and driving him to the Shinra residence in Junon for the upcoming holiday weekend.

The WAP on his phone is pretty pathetic down here, even though Midgar boasts the most connected network on the whole planet. It’s taken nearly five minutes to load a text-only page about today’s Chocobo races. Luckily, they’re ending in under an hour. Knowing the target’s schedule and hobbies, he’s probably going to leave and take the same route home that he always does. Straight half a mile. Take a left turn, then a few more claustrophobic alleyways and home.

It’d be easy to take out the target on his doorstep. But, knowing the state of his relationship with this new girl, Reno has decided it’ll be best to grab him just on the way out of the gambling den. Then you’ll have eyewitnesses saying he definitely was there at this exact time, thus breaking her heart, because a conversation over breakfast two days ago (he’d previously bugged the house) had revealed his earnest promise to curb his gambling habit for good. Ha.

Reno isn’t holding a sniper rifle, never having been too great at the whole marksmanship deal. Well, decent enough, but his favoured discipline is hand to hand combat. There’s a way to silence a man that’s far easier than shooting him. Reno has a Materia on him to cast Sleep. Quite a potent mixture too, that also physically petrifies the poor victim. The target’s never presented with paranoia in all the time he’s been tailing him, which means he’s gotten lax. He probably thinks he’s hiding right underneath the Shinra’s nose, and doesn’t need to keep any protection statuses up on himself. Just to be certain, Reno had sifted through their vacant home while installing the bugs the other week. No Materia to be found, no ribbons, no potions, nothing.

He’s also got a black hessian bag on him, to do the good old Turks thing of pulling it over the target’s head and dragging them off into a dark room. Except that the latter isn’t going to be happening, since Tseng has a car nearby, a black paint-job with tinted windows. The target will be stuffed in the trunk, and they’ll continue driving long into the night to take away his sense of time, dragging him into HQ for questioning. Which in Reno's definition simply means roughing up until they squeal.

There’s not a _huge_ dossier of evidence on this guy, but Shinra have ordered that all security risks must be dealt with. No use getting soft on some guy because _he has his reasons_ for leaving the company he swore his allegiance to. Plus, both the President and Shinra’s Head of SOLDIER take a rather traditional, hardline approach to deserters. Court-martials and then, if convicted, a more permanent silencing of the guilty party.

Who knows what secrets he’s told people about Shinra during his desertion? Maybe there’s a girl somewhere who’s now inspired to join AVALANCHE. Or a young soldier who decides against coming to Midgar to be cannon fodder. Reno chuckles to himself at those images — as if people could be stupid enough to be swayed by the testimony of one guy, when Shinra is everywhere and _everything_ in this world.

Reno’s no devoted employee, though. He’s aware of Shinra’s dysfunction and the fact that their creepy omnipresence is terrible PR and decreases morale amongst the general public. But, being with the Shinra pays better than any job he’s ever done before, and for the first time in his life, he quite likes having a bit of money and prestige behind him. Among other things, of course.

Under five minutes to go, and Reno is blessed by Minerva herself. The guy shambles out of the building, frowning. His body language suggests quite a harsh monetary loss. Well, you win some, you lose some. The stress he’s under probably means he’ll be a bit more paranoid than usual. As he saunters off towards home, he’s looking over his shoulder.

Well, that’s Reno’s cue.

Reno slips down the building, taking a quick shortcut as he radioes Tseng about needing the car ready at a certain location in about two minutes.

“Roger.”

There’s nobody else around at this time, possibly because it’s a working day and this part of the slums isn’t exactly offering prime job opportunities. There’s no ratty, information-broking children to have to deal with, no housewives or husbands peering out of their frayed curtains… every establishment except for the gambling den and a small general store down the road seems to be abandoned. It took a few thousand Gil, but the proprietor of the general store has been paid off to pretend he didn’t see anything.

Which is just as well, because Reno catches up with the deserter just outside. The shop’s owner gets the cue to let down the security grille and switch off the neon lights advertising his deals. Not that he’ll need this business to keep himself afloat any more.

The spell is quickly cast, and the guy goes down like a stone. If he were more sympathetic, Reno would wince at the loud crack his head makes against the paving. That’ll smart when he comes around.

After dragging the target’s body into a slightly darker corner of the street, he binds his arms quickly with some strong cable ties, not enough to cut blood supply but enough to dig in and cause quite a bit of discomfort. Then the black bag goes on right over his head, and the target is primed and ready for a little drive around the highways of Midgar.

Reno can’t wait to just sit around for hours and listen to that irritating evening radio show with a presenter who’d probably be better off presenting in the breakfast slot, but it’s no matter. He has to stretch his spine out a little from staying in the same position for hours. Something gently pops, and he grunts, grateful to see the lights of Tseng’s car appear down the street.

Tseng stops, allowing Reno just enough time to bundle the target into the trunk, and they’re off. Reno updates his boss with everything he’s done these past few days, and how the target is _definitely_ the guy they intended to hunt down for the Company. (Reno’s impulsiveness meant he once bagged some guy’s poor, unsuspecting twin brother instead. The older, more experienced Turks would never let him live it down.)

The girlfriend hasn’t been informed, and will likely never be. This guy’s just simply going to disappear off the radar. His last known whereabouts? The gambling den, where he most earnestly promised her he would never go to again. The shop owner has enough money and drive to leave Midgar for good now, with Reno having struck up a conversation about how nice it would be to go back to his native Costa Del Sol and raise his family there instead of in this shithole of a city.

Reno reclines his seat down as far as it will go, and watches the slums change into the city above as they join the highway driving upwards. “Just gonna do a figure eight circuit around?” He asks. Tseng nods.

It’s going to be a long night…


End file.
